


Pressed into the gravel, pressed into the dirt, pressing against each other in an effort to make the minutes stop

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, It's gonna hurt, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: He knows it’s the darkest magic he has ever faced in his life when he stumbles upon Gellert Grindelwald sitting on his sofa.





	1. wired, collapsed;

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely not original at all. Many people have done this. I just... wanted to try? To do something. To write something.
> 
> I don't know, I'm pretty terrible at being self-confident regarding my writing.
> 
> The title for this fanfiction comes from "The Torn Up Road" by Richard Siken.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. I'm gonna crawl back behind my bush and hide there.

He trips on the smashed glass glimmering quietly in the hallway of his flat when he gets back from MACUSA, one particularly cold evening.  
  
For a moment, Percival thinks that Credence might be hurt, and panic starts to creep up his veins, and then his scar burns and makes him want to throw up.  
  
It’s not the slight ache he feels around Credence which makes him wonder about the young man’s abilities and to what extent he _really is not a_ No-Maj; it’s a full-blown pain pressing against his skin and muscles and bones that doesn’t seem to _stop_ and grows and grows and _grows_ —  
  
He knows it’s the darkest magic he has ever faced in his life when he stumbles upon Gellert Grindelwald sitting on his sofa.

* * *

He pants, wipes the blood dripping from his brow, tries to breathe.  
  
A second, and he’s almost caught.  
  
Grindelwald’s spell comes buzzing towards him; Percival curses himself— _he’s slow, too slow, how can he be so slow and be the Director of  Magical Security and Magical Law Enforcement, for Merlin’s sake—_  
  
Percival groans, barrels out the door of his living room to get into the kitchen, his neck red with concentration and his skin burning like no tomorrow.  
  
One new spot and Grindelwald inches forward.  
  
He’s so close.  
  
Clutching his neck.  
  
Stabbing him.  
  
_Crucio,_ _repeatedly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can consider Percival's scar like Harry's which reacts to Voldemort, or like Bilbo's sword Sting which turns blue near orcs and goblins. I thought it would be an interesting concept? I don't know. You tell me. Or not. Or. I'm gonna stop talking. More on this later.
> 
> All that I write around this scar thing is related to my own scar and my way of handling chronic pains — I hope it's not too bad.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. sleeping, falling;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who left comments and kudos and just read my story, thank you ever so much! I'm honestly really grateful.

”What do you want?” Percival asks aggressively. Blood leaks quietly from his nose and onto his trousers while Grindelwald stares at him intently from the sofa.

” _Your life_ ,” is all he gets for an answer.

The Auror is pretty sure he’s going to die anytime soon when he hears that, until Grindelwald points his wand at himself and murmurs a spell Percival quite can’t hear. His mouth turns sour; he wants to throw up.

He watches in horror as Grindelwald’s face morphs into _his face_ in a matter of minutes.

* * *

Sleep comes but he never dreams. Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s just minutes and hours and days stitched together through the darkness that almost never rises; just a few cracks here and there to let the light get in. His iris tightens automatically around his pupil when he catches a glimpse of brightness.  
  
Percival doesn’t have a single clue as to where he’s currently detained; his mind feels foggy and his thoughts are a mess. The glass of water beside him is growing warm to the touch; he can barely move his fingers anymore.  
  
He can feel his scar acting up on a constant basis now; feels how the thick layers of chalky skin twitch because of the cold and the frequent beatings, but mostly because of the dark magic it reacts to.  
  
Nobody has ever been able to explain _why_ and _how_ and _where_ , and Percival has always been pushing it aside; but now he understands. Most dark magic injuries never heal completely — he’s seen dozen and dozen of them in his career — and the wound on his left arm is no exception, burning up as soon as Grindelwald is around and sets fire to the long, sensitive patch of damaged skin.  
  
He bites off a groan as he remembers the spell creeping up his arm like lightning, cracking, destroying every bit of skin on its way, the pool of blood at his feet and his cheek pressed against the cold, dark floor as he lost consciousness and woke up to mediwizards and mediwitches eyeing his injury with concern.  
  
His friend Alice from the medical department said he’d never fully recover, that he’d have to handle the pain as best as he could because it was never going to disappear. They had healed his skin and put his arm back together, but he’d have to bear this substantial, irregular and jagged scar for the rest of his life.  
  
Everyone expected him to feel miserable about it, and while he hated how his arm looked, that came with the job, and he was okay with that.  
  
_That’s how it works, that’s the job, it’s okay, I’m fine,_ he kept saying, over and over again, tired out of his bones for weeks after the attack.  
  
Dark magic no longer felt mysterious to him now that he bore it on his very skin. Very few knew of it — of course, most people at MACUSA had heard he got injured during an intense fight with a dark wizard all these years ago, but it wasn’t common knowledge that his arm didn’t look _exactly_ the same and that, most of all, _it reacted to dark magic._


	3. breaking, struggling;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the warm welcome in the fandom. I'm really happy about it!
> 
> I hope you keep enjoying this series, your comments, kudos and bookmarks mean the world to me.

Grindelwald takes some sick pleasure in touching the carved discoloration of his arm just to watch him scream in pain. He seems fascinated by it, poking and twisting the large expanse of skin beneath his fingers; even the slightest touches make the Auror feel like he has swallowed broken glass.  
  
Percival spits in his face, defies him, tries to keep his mind from falling apart while his body is crumbling down, pliant and spongy and blood-soaked as Grindelwald keeps breaking every damn bone he can find, every bit of skin that hasn’t been branded and disfigured.  
  
One day, he comes back with hands full of death; Percival spies fresh blood underneath his fingernails.  
  
Percival recognizes his Auror Jenny in his arms, her body limp, lifeless.  
  
His throat feels too raw; his head is going to explode from the pain eating up his synapses.  
  
He doesn’t have enough room anymore to both cry and convulse with rage.  
  
He’s just numb.  
  
She was 25.

* * *

”She was a sweet girl, Jenny,” Grindelwald purrs in his ear a few hours after bringing him her body. It’s still in the room, on the cold, hard ground, and Percival can’t bring himself to look at her.  
  
He fights back tears and nausea every single time that Grindelwald forces him to watch her, breathless, spread around like a dead animal; he keeps wondering, _did she think it was me? Did she die thinking I hated her enough to want her dead?_  
  
”She fought so, _so_ hard, Percival. She was so good. But not good enough to beat _me_ ,” he continues, as a deep dread fills the Auror, his bones, his thick veins.  
  
_Credence_ , Percival thinks all of a sudden, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.  
  
He can’t stop himself before Grindelwald notices, and he hates himself for it, hates himself for letting his mind crumble enough for his thoughts to be heard, transparent and crystal-clear.  
  
_He already knows. How could he not have realized until now?_  
  
”Oh, Credence is in good hands, Percival,” the dark wizard whispers, grinning that awful grin of his that Percival wants to wipe off his face.  
  
He attempts to punch him; misses him by inches.  
  
Grindelwald bares his teeth and laughs before jamming his hand hard into Percival’s throat, knocking the air out of him, blood bursting from his lips. ”You’ll _never_ learn, it seems.”  



	4. wondering, hurting;

He wonders if he ever thinks of him, if _he knows_ and tries to fight back against the man who stole his face, who’s not him, who’ll _never_ be him.

He wonders if Credence loves him back, if there’s a single chance that he does.

It tears him all up inside.

Percival shuts his eyes painfully at the thought; huffs a lifeless laugh as blood drips on the floor, as he battles the monsters hemorrhaging from everywhere in his broken mind.

* * *

Credence chokes on a sob and feels heavy, so heavy, nauseous and dizzy as he stumbles outside, in the dark alley leading up to the church.  
  
The cold creeps up his back and makes the lacerations throb even more.  
  
He got whipped so hard that night that the back of his shirt shredded— he’s only left with hot tears and hands stained red now, and that’s his own fault, he knows it, though Mr Graves has always told him that it’s _never_ his fault, _never never never_ —  
  
Lately, he hasn’t.  
  
Credence stops.  
  
It had become a habit of his to say, _it’s okay, it’s not your fault, it’s never your fault, Credence,_ before healing his cuts and welts and hugging him.  
  
Lately, he hasn’t said any of these words, focusing rather on looking for a child with exceptional power—  
  
He doesn’t recognize the man he’s so infatuated with, and it _hurts_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Credence appears, at last /o/ 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all the love, and for reading this!


	5. giving in, bleeding;

Percival is still not sure how much of winter got hold of his body, but considering the dull ache that has seeped through every single inch of skin and every single bone in his body, it seems that it won’t take long for him to shut down completely. He can’t feel anything anymore — legs, arms, fingers, toes; everything’s gone to waste in a swirl of blue and purple and black. He’s a pile of shattered bones laying on a dirty floor in a room whose location he doesn’t even know and whose fingers are broken beyond repair to even have a chance at sparking up wandless magic.  
  
He holds on because Credence’s name never leaves his lips when he’s on his own, surrounded by his own quiet thoughts and ragged breath. He holds on because the Goldstein sisters never leave his thoughts. He holds on because he remembers his sister and the way she calls his name through the old family’s house and kisses his cheek, warm and safe. He holds on because he remembers his days at Ilvermorny, classes with Seraphina and George, magic dancing freely in his veins.  
  
He holds on because the music keeps playing on in his head, resonates in his ears; he’s broken, wrecked, but still alive.

* * *

”Mr Graves,” Credence tries, bottom lip quivering, ears popping, head dizzy from reforming so quickly; without realizing it, he has just traveled miles and miles and miles to an unknown location, apparating out of the blue in a pitch-black room, barely lit by two dying candles, as he felt a voice reaching out to him—  
  
”Mr G—,” he tries again, and he’s cut off by a sob.  
  
”I— Percival, _please_ ,” Credence pleads between sobs, ”please, wake up,” and he’s holding Percival’s head in his hands which are covered in black dust and painted with copper-colored scars. He doesn’t care that he’s getting blood all over his long fingers; he only cares about the man who saved him and whom he wants to save in return.

Nobody had ever believed in him until he had stumbled upon the magical world.  
  
First, there was Tina, strong and full of justice and soothing magic; Tina, who showed interest in him and tried to protect him from his mother and got punished for it.  
  
Then—  
  
_Then._  
  
Mr Graves.  
  
_Percival._  
  
 With hands brimming with warmth and attention; voice laced with worry and love.  
  
Mr Graves and his gentle smile painting blue skies in Credence’s mind; Mr Graves and his cold fingers healing his bleeding fists, making the coal-black blood retreat from underneath his skin; Mr Graves pressing magic-infused bandages against his ribcage—  
  
The very same Mr Graves who is bleeding to death in his arms, unconscious, and _Jesus Christ Credence doesn’t have a clue where they are—_  
  
”What—” a voice behind him starts before it cuts short; he hears hurried footsteps and then he’s pushed aside roughly, dark crimson fluid coating his skin, nothing but chilly air in the place of Percival’s body.  
  
”P— Perce,” the woman breathes out, visibly on the verge of tears, voice trembling, fingers applying pressure to the large bleeding wound on Percival's chest as best as she can.  
  
” _Vulnera_ _San_ _entur_ ,” she murmurs intensely, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and the blood flow seems to stop for now as new skin forms around the injury; she sighs and wipes her hands on her brown skirt.  
  
She whirls around in seconds and points her wand at Credence menacingly, her dark curls framing her face. ”What did you _do_ to my brother?” she asks in a low, dangerous tone.  
  
_Her brother?_  
  
She moves further and ends up pinning Credence down to the dirty ground, the wooden tip nagging at his throat.  
  
”Answer me,” she snarls.  
  
Credence has trouble breathing, completely shocked by the situation and the fact that he has Percival's blood all over him. ”I— I—”  
  
The woman in front of him loses patience as Credence can’t form coherent sentences; she presses her wand harder into his skin.  
  
”He,” the young man manages to whisper, ”saved— _saved_ me.”  
  
The pressure stills for a while. She scans him, eyes the marks scattered all over his visible skin, watches his lips quiver, the blood spread over his cheek, the despair hanging in his clouded eyes.  
  
She eventually lets him go.  
  
”I’m Eleanor Graves,” she declares as she gets up and brushes the dust off her skirt, offering him a hand. ”Percival’s older sister.”  
  
”Cred— Credence Barebone,” he replies, taking her hand. ”Thank you.”  
  
”We need to get him to the hospital, now.” Eleanor pushes her wand into her pocket. ”You owe me an impressive list of explanations, Mr Barebone. Once it’s all settled,” and she waves abstractly around her, ”we’ll take some time to talk.”  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Eleanor \o/ how come both them found Percival? I'LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.
> 
> Later.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this! Thank you again for all the love and warmth, and thanks for reading this, really.


	6. coming through, rescuing;

His lungs feel tight, so impossibly tight, he can’t breathe, not anymore—  
  
”You have to calm down,” he hears the woman — _Alice_ , her name tag says — declare, her hands holding his shoulders. ”Breathe in and out. In and out.”  
  
He’s survived many winters. He’s survived the frost. He’s survived his mother’s beatings and her pouring nights all over his eyes and hopes.  
  
He can do this.  
  
Credence tries hard not to dissolve into a faceless cloud of smoke — he knows the Obscurus is somehow dead, but he always feels himself slipping, careless—  
  
Alice holds his gaze until the sudden rush of air in his lungs burns his nose and scratches his throat.  
  
Numb and exhausted, he throws another look at Percival’s unconscious frame; the dried blackish blood on his face is still here, Eleanor pressing a towel on his left arm, and he can’t look—  
  
_He loves him._  
  
He loves Percival Graves and it _hurts_ like it’s never hurt ever before.

* * *

” _Seraphina_ ,” Eleanor says through gritted teeth as she bursts into Picquery’s office, ”what _happened_ to _my brother_?”  
  
She looks terrifying, magic pulsing through her veins just like Seraphina has seen it happening with Percival, her eyes dark and glaring daggers at the President. Her white shirt is soaked with rapidly-darkening blood— _Percival’s_ blood, Seraphina presumes.  
  
”I’m sorry, we only realized it a few hours ago—”  
  
”He was _dying_ ,” Eleanor snarls at her, ”under _my own house_! How do you explain that?”  
  
”It’s _Grindelwald_ we are talking about, not some idiotic, low-level dark wizard,” Seraphina hisses. ”I didn’t know— couldn’t have _known_ —”  
  
”He’s your best friend, for Merlin’s sake!” Eleanor snaps, her throat closing up as tears slide on her pale cheeks. ”You should have _seen_ —”  
  
” _I messed up,_ Eleanor! There, I said it,” Seraphina eventually shouts at the top of her lungs, silently thanking the silencing spells cast around her office. ”And don’t blame _me_ for everything— nobody realized that he had been replaced, here. _Please don’t tell me_ what I should have done or seen or known, because I already know I failed him. I have enough guilt swirling inside of me as it is,” she finishes, voice breaking a little on the last word, eyes shedding silent, translucent tears.  
  
Eleanor sits in the chair behind her, stunned— she’s never seen Seraphina cry in her entire life, not even when Edward had died; she had put on a brave face, Eleanor was sure of that, but she didn’t shed a single tear, probably not to aggravate Percival and her more.  
  
”I’m sorry,” the oldest Graves articulates. ”I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just thought I had lost yet another brother, and I went— _mad_.”  Her fingers tighten on her dirty skirt as her stare falls upon her feet, ashamed of her behavior.  
  
Seraphina nods quietly, grasping a delicate silk cloth to dry her tears, pressing it on her skin, the golden ornaments standing out against it. ”Which is understandable,” the President murmurs. ”I apologize for not taking good care of Percival.” Eleanor opens her mouth but Seraphina holds up her hand, silencing her. ”I know he is a grown man and more than capable as Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement — well, _obviously_ , he would not be there otherwise,” she says with a slight grin, ”but I cherish our friendship more than work. I will make sure to make it up to him.”  
  
She lets her gaze drift out toward the window, even if there isn’t much to look at at this hour of the night— only silver stars shining brightly in the black sky and dim lights piling up on the streets, showing a few wizards and witches walking under the orange lighting.  
  
”I promise that I will not let you down, both of you,” is what she guarantees Eleanor, her voice laced with strength and affection; she turns around, catching Eleanor’s stare and smiles at her before she goes back to watching the slow dance of the stars above her, powder-white snow starting to descend upon the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write a discussion between Eleanor and Seraphina— I like the idea of Picquery being really close to Percival, which is why I made them best friends since Ilvermorny. 
> 
> It's all falling into place!
> 
> I'm probably not writing the best story out there, but thank you for reading it and for the love, I'm very grateful (I know I write this all the freaking time but it's true, it really is!).


	7. waking up, snapping back;

The pain in the back of his head is the first thing that hits him when he regains consciousness.  
  
He can’t move. Everything hurts so much, and everything is so blurry, so disjoined—  
  
His left arm is burning, not as a reaction to dark magic, that he can tell, but rather as a reaction to all that has happened while he was tortured.  
  
Percival breathes in and out, roughly, scans the white walls spreading all around him and the flowers hanging in vases in the room.  
  
He’s alive.

* * *

The bathroom is so big that Credence can’t quite believe it when he steps in it for the first time. Eleanor is right behind him, smiling softly, and with a flick of her wrist, she gets soft towels out of the shelves; they fold quietly on top of the bathroom sink.  
  
The clear white tub is already brimming with hot water and he sighs, delighted at the sight.  
  
Eleanor closes the door and Credence undresses, gets rid of the blood-soaked shirt he wants nothing more than burn on the spot.  
  
He closes his eyes as the hot, burning water ripples slightly and embraces his tight muscles, wiping away the worry and ache pounding underneath his skin. It’s been a while since he’s had such a nice moment for himself— Ma never allowed him hot baths, just a few minutes to soak in a narrow tub filled with cold water to get the grime off his limbs; never more.  
  
Credence sinks deeper in the tub until the water is licking his nose, thinking of the giant family estate he has set foot upon today, thinking of Eleanor’s clouded gaze as they passed the wrecked barn where Percival was held prisoner that is being investigated by Aurors; thinking of Graves, thinking of the blood sticking to his skin like a scar even after rubbing a wet cloth all over it.  
  
He watches his hands under the water, blurry, only pale, thick lines of flesh flashing out to him.  
  
He’s going to have to live with the memory of Percival bleeding out on him, his ghastly face pressed against his thighs.  
  
The thought makes him want to throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise comfort and fluff are on the way!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for the love, kudos, comments and bookmarks. That makes me really happy and I'm really grateful for your support!


	8. discovering, remembering;

He eventually gets to spend time with Eleanor in the evening— she agreed to let him stay at the estate since he had nowhere else to go (except for the Goldstein sisters, and Queenie had insisted he could come whenever he wanted).  
  
He’s wandering through the giant manor and tries not to get lost; he’s curious to see where Graves grew up. His hands slide quietly against the cold walls painted in dark colors as he walks around.  
  
At some point, he stumbles upon Eleanor who’s rearranging things in a corridor— vases float in the air and Credence is still not used to seeing everyday magic, eyes brimming with stars.  
  
”Do you like the manor?” she asks, smiling. Credence nods at her, smiling back.  
  
The oldest Graves tucks her wand back into her pocket and waves at Credence for him to get closer. They’re standing in front of a large wooden door; Eleanor pushes it and holds it open for Credence who, confused, is watching her questioningly.  
  
”That’s Percival’s old room,” she answers softly, motioning for him to get inside. ”You can take a look, he won’t mind.”  
  
”Are you sure? I don’t want to pry,” Credence murmurs, and his eyes fall to the floor. ”I’m not sure he’d like this, somehow.”  
  
Eleanor chuckles. ”I don’t think he’d be mad. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s okay. I just thought that, maybe, you would want to explore the house further.”  
  
Credence finds himself almost beaming, warmth building in his chest. His eyes rise up to her. ”I’d rather not, for now— maybe… maybe—”   
  
”Maybe _he_ will show you himself,” she finishes for him, nodding, her smile turning into a grin.  
  
It’s hard to know what Eleanor thinks about, most of the time, but Credence has a feeling she knows something which she hasn’t told him. He doesn’t push, clearly not comfortable enough for the related discussion to spark up between them.  
  
She closes the door and they move together in silence, candles dancing in the air, which never ceases to amaze the young man. He wants to speak up, ask things, know more, but he hates starting conversations— _has never been allowed to_ , actually.  
  
The old house clock tints in the background, surprising Credence who turns around and watches it change colors to symbolize dinner time.  
  
”If you’re hungry, we can have dinner served,” Eleanor suggests, eyebrows raised.  
  
Once again, Credence nods and follows her without saying a word.

* * *

”Are you— are you an Auror, too?” Credence asks as he sets down his glass of water, mentally slapping himself for stuttering.  
  
Eleanor eyes him curiously. She looks so much like her brother that it sometimes takes Credence’s breath away.  
  
”Not anymore.”  
  
She sits there in silence, her face almost hidden by the bottle of wine set on the table.  
  
”Our younger brother, Edward, died— and I stopped, after that,” she eventually reveals, looking down at her plate, thoughtful, before taking a sip of wine. ”I guess Percival hasn’t told you?”  
  
Credence stares at her over the top of his glass, unable to say anything sounding even remotely good enough. ”I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he blurts out.  
  
”It’s okay,” she says, smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ”I failed to protect him. I couldn’t live with myself after that, so I quit.”  
  
She eats a forkful of chicken in deathlike silence after that. Credence feels on the verge of shedding tears and clenches his jaw tightly, feeling terrible for even bringing up the topic, which she catches. Eleanor frowns, reaches out for his hand across the table and squeezes it lightly, careful not to put pressure on his bandaged palm.    
  
”Don’t look so upset, Credence. I didn’t want to make you feel bad for asking— sorry if that sounded like I did,” she apologizes kindly. ”You couldn’t have known.”  
  
Worry seems to dissolve in his chest and he breathes again, relieved to know that he didn’t act like an idiot. He squeezes her hand back and attempts to smile; Eleanor’s eyes brighten a little— or perhaps it’s the candles, Credence doesn’t know; doesn’t try to see any further as long as she looks okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comfort is on the way (really), I promise.
> 
> Thanks for the love, kudos, comments and most of all, for reading this!


	9. trying, foreseeing;

Alice watches the rain fall outside as cold little droplets of water slide down the window of Percival’s hospital room.  
  
The Auror is so pale that she’s concerned he will end up as translucent as glass. She sighs and catches him stir in his sleep before his eyes flick open, adjusting quietly to the dim light of the room.  
  
Percival coughs weakly, his vision blurring in and out of focus as he blinks repeatedly.  
  
”Hi,” he hears her say from the corner. She comes closer to him and sits down in the chair next to his bed, concern written all over her face.  
  
”Alice,” he mumbles back, his mouth twisting into half a smile. ”It’s been a while.”  
  
She chuckles. ”I’d rather we saw each other again in another situation, to be honest,” the healer declares, shifting slightly in the chair. ”You scared me a little, this time.”  
  
Percival’s breath catches in his sore throat; he swallows roughly. ”Did I?”  
  
”You were very, _very_ close to dying,” Alice replies. ”You lost a dreadful amount of blood. You’re lucky your sister and her friend were on time to save you.”  
  
”My sister? _Her friend_?”  
  
”That’s the only thing you’re concerned with, _really_?” Alice laughs, her eyes flickering around. ”Yes, your sister, and her friend. I don’t know his name, unfortunately. He kind of collapsed in my arms because he had a panic attack.”  
  
Percival frowns. ”Tall, pale, dark-haired?” he asks, and his heart is beating really hard against his chest.  
  
Alice nods as she crosses her arms, confused as to why the young man seems to make Percival Graves, of _all_ people, so agitated.  
  
_He saved you. He’s alive, and he saved you._  
  
_Credence saved you._  
  
”Merlin’s beard,” he gasps, leaning back against his pillows.

* * *

 

”Ready?” Eleanor asks quietly as she shrugs on her dark green coat, her wand poking out of her pocket. Credence stops for a second, watches the clear white sky above him and sighs. He doesn’t feel ready at all if he’s completely honest with himself; he’s not sure he wants to be reminded of what has happened, but he’s willing to get past this for Percival, to help him, he hopes— because he _needs him— because he loves him._  
  
He can hear Ma’s voice creeping up in his head— _you’re selfish and awful and you don’t deserve anything good—_  
  
He breathes in and out, in and out, just like Alice showed him at the hospital. Eleanor is frowning when he turns to her.  
  
”Ready,” he answers, taking her hand, leaning into her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for all the love! I really appreciate your support.


	10. untangling, restating;

”You don’t have to come if you’re uncomfortable,” Eleanor says as she stands beside Credence in the corridor leading to Percival’s room. ”He will understand.”  
  
She pats him on the shoulder gently and Credence sways slightly to the side, making her tighten her grip on his arm for him not to fall.  
  
”But I _need_ to see him— to see he’s okay,” the young man replies in a tiny voice, and his hands start shaking.  
  
” _Credence_ ,” she starts, steadying him with her hand on his arm, ”it’s alright if you’re not ready to see him. We’ve talked about this.”  
  
He wants to believe her, wants to stop feeling guilty for seeing Grindelwald in Graves’ features, wants to stop having nightmares about him bleeding out in his arms—  
  
_”He stole my brother’s face for weeks and abused you emotionally repeatedly,” she had said to him the night before while they were drinking tea near the fireplace, Eleanor’s corgi sitting in Credence’s lap.”It’s okay if you need time to process it. My brother will never hate you for it; to be honest, it’s far more likely that he will hate_ himself _for not being there for you.”_  
  
_”But I know— I_ know _that Percival’s not Grindelwald—”_  
  
_”It’s one thing to know this. It’s another to face it,” Eleanor declared, taking a sip out of her cup. ”And, for the record,” and she pushed Credence’s own cup in his hand with a flick of her fingers, noticing that it was going cold and that he hadn’t even touched it yet, ”you need to recover and heal yourself.”_  
  
_A quiet chuckle escaped Credence’s mouth as his lips twisted into a weird, sarcastic smile, sharp at the edges. ”I don’t need that.”_  
  
_The oldest Graves got up and disappeared into_ _another room, most likely going to her desk. She rummaged in the drawer where she keeps important files and papers and pulled out a thick, black folder._  
  
_”Here,” she whispered, passing it to Credence once she got back into the living room._  
  
_In thick, golden letters, he could see his name written on the dark leather. Tiny drops of blood were scattered on the cover and he avoided them carefully. He took the file from Eleanor and started flipping through pages and pages and pages darkened by words and sentences._  
  
_He realized it was all about him, his life, his whole life, and he felt ice creeping up his veins._  
  
_”What is this? Why do you have a folder about me?” he asked, his voice cracking from the stress and anger._  
  
_”I found it in Percival’s apartment when I guided the Aurors there today, for the investigation.”_  
  
_Credence tried hard not to flinch._  
  
_”Why would he have a folder about me—”_  
  
_And then it dawned on him._  
  
_It dawned on him that Percival Graves had been putting a file together to help him get out of Mary Lou’s claws,_ _to protect him and welcome him into_ _the magical world ever since Tina had stepped in to defend him against Ma._  
  
_”The day Grindelwald attacked him, he had this on him. He was close to rescuing you from the Second Salemers, actually,” she affirmed, watching Credence biting his lower lip. Eleanor sighed and crossed her arms on her lap. ”I took a look. I’m sorry for sticking my nose in it, I thought it was a work file.”_  
  
_Credence swallowed thickly. ”I guess,” he started, softer than he imagined, ”it’s alright if it’s you.”_  
  
_”I’m sorry, still,” she let out, and then added, gently,”I know what your mother did to you.”_  
  
_”So, what about it?” Credence heard himself say, detached. He felt like he was dissociating, just like he did when the Obscurus took hold of him._  
  
_”You didn’t deserve any of it.”_  
  
_He glanced up at her for a brief moment, holding her stare. She didn't say anything, only waited patiently._  
  
_”I don’t know,” he stated flatly. ”It’s hard to believe. It’s been years.” He paused. ”I don’t know,” he added, again, words lost in his mouth._  
  
_She watched him intently for a while, not pushing any further. ”I also know about the Obscurus,” she ended up saying._  
  
_”I…” Credence faltered, took a deep breath and tried again. ”How?”_  
  
_Eleanor leaned back into her chair, her cup_ _of tea in hand, brushing it absently._ _"Mr Scamander told me about it when I stumbled upon him at MACUSA. He was awfully worried about you after what happened in the subway.”_  
  
_Something close to despair flashed in Credence’s eyes and disappeared just as quickly; Eleanor was only able to catch seconds of it._  
  
_”I probably should go,” he mumbled, standing up and going for the door. Eleanor stopped him, her fingers circling his thin wrist; she could feel the rough scars curving around the soft skin._  
  
_”Don’t.”_  
  
_He turned around, stared into her dark eyes, and he saw Percival and wanted to cry and crumble on the spot._  
  
_”Don’t you think I’m a monster? I killed people,” he cried as a series of images assaulted his mind._  
  
_”I killed people too, Credence,” Eleanor replied softly, getting even closer to him, careful not to frighten him. Her arms closed around his shoulders and she hugged him tightly, stroking his neck and hair gently. ”You’re not a monster. Not even close, honey.”_  
  
_Credence stiffened a little at first, not used to affection, but he let go, let the wave wash over him. He sobbed against Eleanor for a while as she murmured soft and caring words to calm him down, her embrace reminding him of Percival’s kisses that fell over him like stars._

* * *

When they are finally allowed to see him again two days after he’s been rescued, Eleanor throws herself into the room and onto Percival’s bed, hugging her brother tightly but carefully so as not to crush him and apply more pressure to his injuries.  
  
”Perce,” she starts, sobs in her voice, ”I’m so sorry— I’m so— _sorry_ — you were— you were _there_ , _on our land_ , all along and I saw _nothing_ —”  
  
The Auror wraps his right arm around her painstakingly, his left one still too weak to function. ”It’s okay,” he mumbles faintly, ”you couldn’t have known.”  
  
”If Credence hadn’t found you— you’d be— _d_ —”, she tries to say without success, falling deeper into his embrace, her tears soaking his shirt.  
  
From the other side of the room, Credence watches them, silent, before averting his eyes when he feels Percival’s stare on him; not wanting to intrude, he leaves the room discreetly, his heart pounding hard in his chest.  
  
Eleanor notices the slight ruffle of Credence’s jacket and lets go of her brother to go after him, but Percival grasps her wrist, stilling her.  
  
”Leave him,” he sighs, chest heaving a little. ”I understand.”

* * *

He knows he keeps drifting in and out of sleep thanks to the potions he is given on a regular basis in order to control his pain, but he hates how drowsy they make him feel. Percival’s never been too keen on sleeping for large amounts of time, but he knows he can’t fight the liquid drugs swirling in his system.  
  
He’s pretty sure he was with his sister only a few minutes ago, but it appears that he has slept for a while, instead, since the room is much darker than he remembers it.  
  
He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and happens to be greeted by silky dark hair spread over his legs, which are covered by white sheets — _for the better_ , Percival thinks bitterly as he gets flashes of his limbs bent at horrific angles.  
  
Credence is sleeping peacefully against him and, for the first time in weeks, Percival can feel the knot in his chest loosening.  
  
The young man eventually wakes up, disoriented, and he suddenly realizes where he is, startling himself completely awake. With a jolt, he sits straight in his chair, pushing Percival’s hand away from his hair in his rush, which earns the Auror a groan.  
  
”I’m— I’m _sorry_ —” Credence stutters, hands shaking.  
  
”Credence,” Percival warns quietly, and the young man halts when he feels a hand against his cheek, ”it’s okay. I’m so glad to see you.”  
  
Credence tries not to blush but fails completely, his face warm from the gentle tone, and he fumbles for a reply.  
  
”I’m— I’m really happy, too,” he croaks.  
  
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence for a while as they stare at each other before Percival finds it in himself to speak up.  
  
”How,” Percival starts quietly, his voice raw and flat, ”how did you— find me?”  
  
Credence slips his fingers under Percival’s in a swift motion and holds his hand carefully, afraid of poking at the needle stuck on the back of it. Percival feels a shiver running down his spine; he likes the warmth of Credence’s palm against his.  
  
”I felt it,” the young man replies, straightforward, and Percival frowns. Credence clears his throat. ”Eleanor— she said that I probably left some sort of… residual obscurial dust on you when you— touched my wounds. At some point. And it led me to you. I don’t know how. But it did.”  
  
The Auror’s brows are still furrowed until it dawns on him.  
  
_Oh._  
  
”You’re an Obscurial.”  
  
Credence wants to cry when he hears the words leave Percival’s mouth, his tone raspy. His hand tightens slightly around the other man’s and his heart is pounding so hard that he feels short of breath.  
  
”The Obscurus is sort of— _dead_ , I think. But I’m still magical. I don’t know how it— how it quite works.”  
  
Percival watches him for a while without saying anything; he’s got eyes as dark as the night sky. Credence feels a shiver run down his spine.  
  
When his voice breaks the silent that has enveloped them, Credence lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.  
  
”That’s why I felt _like this_ around you,” he mutters, speaking indistinctly, which makes Credence tilt his head to the side, a confused look dancing on his face.  
  
Percival rubs the tip of his nose with the back of his fingers before he moves them to push up the sleeve of the clean cotton shirt he’s been changed into while he was healed. ”This,” he murmurs, ”reacts to dark magic.”  
  
Clean bandages are wrapped around most of his left arm, probably the same ones that Percival had used on his wounds since Credence can smell and hear the slight tingle of magic coming off from them. The young man scans the expanse of skin with meticulous eyes and eventually reaches Percival’s biceps, his shoulder, where there’s no barrier.  
  
Deep, white lacerations are carved into the Auror’s skin, looking like jagged lightning burst under his veins; Credence approaches a hand, carefully, waiting for Percival to agree, which he does, nodding absently; and traces one of the cracks gently, eyes widening when the skin ends up glowing a faint, distressed red where Credence has just put his fingers.  
  
Percival winces ever so slightly at the touch, making Credence jerk his hand back.  
  
”It’s okay,” Percival tells him. ”I’ve been through far worse, lately.” His eyes crinkle a bit as he chuckles.  
  
Credence’s eyes water at the words, unable to keep it in anymore, and tears soon flood his cheeks. He feels gross and ugly and terrible for breaking down in front of Percival, but he’s been feeling so empty, so hollow these days that seeing him, the man he fell so hard for, overwhelms him with emotion and burning stars.  
  
Percival’s hand tightens around Credence’s, giving him a small, comforting squeeze with the strength he’s been able to gather. Credence looks up at him with large, wet eyes, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath when Percival manages to sit a little straighter in his bed and puts a hand on the back of Credence’s neck, threading his fingers into his hair, which makes his body shiver. Percival wants to tell him _it’s okay, you’re fine, you’re just fine, Credence, you’ll be okay_ , but he’s not so good with words, so he just allows the silence to settle into the room.  
  
_It’s better like this, for now_ , they both think, and they’re just content to be in each other’s presence after seeing rivers of blood for days on end.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's probably one of the longest chapters in this story!
> 
> Thank you for the love and for reading, as always. <3


	11. tortuously, lacerating;

The neon light above them cracks slightly. The corridor’s empty except for Queenie and her—  
  
And _Newt_ , who turns winters into springs and smiles into raindrops of warmth and love.  
  
Tina blushes slightly and brushes the feeling off; taking a deep breath, she pushes the door in front of her open.

* * *

Percival has never told Credence.  
  
He has never said _I love you._  
  
He has never wanted to engage with him in _that way_ , held back by memories and self-restraint.  
  
He can’t even recall where he should be setting his knife and fork most days, his brain still recovering from the shock of the fall, humiliation running through his raw, emerald veins. He highly doubts that Credence would fall in love with him, this version of him — broken beyond repair, laced with nightmares and scars.  
  
He can feel Queenie staring at him from her chair, the bright blue flowers scentless in her hands, and she just stares, doesn’t say a word. Percival just catches a name, a glimpse of a man standing in a bakery—  
  
_Jacob._  
  
Outside, the leaves are rattling against the ground, swirling, the air stuffed with the coldness of winter.

* * *

He wants to get through the day without being harassed by memories. He wants to forget.  
  
He cannot forget.  
  
He tries.  
  
It doesn’t work, forgetting, and the monsters are always hungry.  
  
He wants to be mad at his team for not realizing he was replaced. He wants to be angry and terrifying and _bite off their pity_.  
  
He doesn’t have enough strength to even feel furious; not even _bitter_.  
  
He’s a helpless heap of broken bones with next to no energy and so little blood left in his body that he needs specific potions to hold himself up for _a couple of minutes._  
  
He sells his soul to his nightmares on his hospital bed, wrecked out of his skin, waiting for Credence to come back, for _anyone_ to come back and tell him he’s real, not just this pressure in his chest, not just another impostor living out of people’s emotions, not just a black mass of grief and pain.

* * *

”I’m never going to be the same, Credence,” Percival whispers one night in his hospital bed, rubbing the exhaustion out of the blue rings painted underneath his eyes. He didn’t even realize he was holding back his breath.  
  
”I don’t expect you to be,” Credence replies quietly as he sets his book down on his knees, smothering the soft fabric of his trousers, ”and it’s alright.”  
  
He pauses, watches Percival for a while, breathes in and out just like Alice taught him. ”As a person, you can never be the same twice, I guess,” he eventually says. ”You’re never the same after anything that happens.”  
  
He adds nothing more and just stares at the sky, outside the hospital window, brimming with stars and golden lights.  
  
Percival wants to ask, _what happens next? after anything?_ but he swallows back the question.

His eyes are moonless nights now, and Credence wishes he could bring the stars back and hang them up there again.  
  
Percival says he’s okay, that it’s all fine, that the nightmares will eventually go away.  
  
He tries so hard to keep it all up inside, and then he’s trying to smile; full of cracks and cold nights but also full of anger and bright sparkles.  
  
Credence thinks that it’s worth it, and so he’s trying to smile, too, swallowing his own tears and brushing a hand through the black bangs that fall on Percival’s forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Newt/Tina and Jacob/Queenie because they are so cute *melts*
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fractured chapter! Thank you for all the love, kudos, comments and bookmarks, and for reading this!


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